The Men Who Broke The Sky
by bluenose141
Summary: Sherlock faces a series of impossible events in London. People are being killed in the streets of London. The End of Days approaches. Can Sherlock save the world? Or will time run out. Rated M for later horror and possible romance.
1. Rupture

**A/N: Okay, this is the first fan fiction I've scribbled in a while, so please be kind! The events in this story take place before the Reichenbach Fall, in a wintery period in London. Hope you enjoy!**

**Can you come to the Tower of London? This could be the hardest case you've ever had. GL.**

That was usually how Sherlock Holmes was summoned these days. It seemed that since he'd solved the mystery in Austria that his attention was needed on a growing basis by Lestrade.

Not that he didn't mind of course.

He flipped his phone into his pocket and then grabbed the scarf which he had previously thrown onto his pet skull. Pausing momentarily to examine his reflection in the dusty old mirror which hung by the fireplace, he grimaced slightly.

"Now that does seem a tad vain Sherlock," John Watson smiled, his reflection appearing gracefully in the mirror. He was already dressed ready to go out. "Yeah, I heard the phone. Only Lestrade texts you these days. You really should socialise more,"

"If I spent time tweetering or Spacebooking or whatever it is students do when they're not in lectures then my brain will rot. Honestly, I have more important things to do than worry about how's ribbing me on Mybook," Sherlock replied, brushing past his friend on the way out.

From out of the ground floor apartment came Mrs. Hudson, who was looking slightly dishevelled and covered in flour. Sundays for her were devoted to baking cakes and the like. Not for solving murders.

"Tower of London. Shall we bring back a souvenir?" John asked politely whilst Sherlock peeped out of the window outside.

"I've been a few times you know. You two take care now okay? That Moriarty man may still be around," she advised, then returned to her baking.

Together the two men emerged blinking in a pale January sun. The streets were covered in a mild snow which had fallen a few days ago. Nobody had ventured out: it was still too soon after the holidays to return to work. Why serial killers couldn't do the same baffled Watson.

As they climbed into one of the several black cabs which adorned the city, they began discussing the possibilities.

"Lestrade didn't mention multiple murders," Sherlock said the second the taxi pulled away from Baker Street.

"Lestrade probably didn't say much at all. Could it have been Moriarty?" John replied, his attention focused to the dishwater grey sky above.

"Doubtful. My brother says Moriarty is currently in deep hiding abroad. Which could possibly mean a grave,"

As the two men quietly contemplated the events which had drawn them inconspicuously to James Moriarty, the taxi pulled up outside the Tower of London, where Greg Lestrade awaited them.

"There's a body for you to look at. Donovan doesn't want you anywhere near it, but I'm giving you ten minutes to impress us," Lestrade replied, looking rosier than normal.

"Thanks. By the way, I'd consider laying off the chocolates for a while Lestrade. Whilst they make great presents, they block the arteries and leave all sorts of stains on jackets," Sherlock grinned, then skipped towards the centre of operations.

Like a dragonfly drawn to a lamp, Sherlock danced straight towards the congregation of officers who were examining the cell beneath the Tower. He easily negotiated the narrow stairs: his hobnailed boots providing him with grip against the patches of dark ice. Watson struggled down after him, taking his time so as not to slip.

"Ah. There you are Freak. I was beginning to think that you'd rather watch the television or were recovering from a hangover. But then you're not a normal person are you," Sally Donovan sneered from the passage. Sherlock took one glance at her then entered the room she guarded.

And then poked his head back out.

"By the way Donovan, I do believe that you shouldn't be sneaking off duty with Anderson. There are marks on your police uniform which definitely aren't chocolate,"

Watson grinned as he past the sullen detective, and then joined his friend in the room.

What they were looking at was impossible.

So thought John Watson as he stood in the lowest cell in the Tower of London. If he held his breath, he could hear the sound of melted ice dripping into the sewer somewhere. But they weren't hear to examine sewers.

The room had been sealed off for over four hundred years. Nobody could possibly have entered it from any direction: there wasn't a chance in hell that you could have disassembled and then reassembled an entire wall. What's more, there wasn't an ounce of natural light to be had. The room itself was bare: there were no furnishings.

"This room was used by those who committed the worse type of treason. You would have been locked away without a fighting chance of survival," Holmes explained, his fingertips dancing across the grey stone walls.

"So how did he get there?" Watson asked, nodding at the body that lay in the centre of the room.

Sherlock re-examined the body he'd glanced as he entered. Male, probably in his mid twenties. Short dark hair. Fashionable clothes, probably chosen by a fashionable woman judging by the quality. Positioned to resemble a crucifix. Curious.

"This man was a martyr for a lost cause I think," Sherlock mumbled doubtfully, wishing he could have more time than the ten minutes allotted to him.

"Or maybe he was arranged that way for show. But how did he enter. Nobody has entered this room in four hundred years. I didn't know it existed!"

Holmes bent down and examined the man's right wrist. There was something about it which was bothering him. In the dim light his eyes were drawn to it: as though something blatantly obvious was screaming for discovery.

And then he noticed it.

"John, notice how the man's skin tone is lighter around his wrists than anywhere else. Which would imply that he was wearing something: something which was stolen. Could be a watch, but why would you just murder someone and then steal their watch." Sherlock sniffed the hand, breathing in the scent of leather.

"Shall we report this to Greg?" John asked, baffled as to how a perfectly healthy man had wound up in the catacombs of London… and as to why someone would steal something from him.

As they left they saw her. In the corner of their eyes stood a woman with long brown hair and a playful smile. She was dressed in desert camouflage gear, her right hand darting towards her left as the detectives turned to face her. In the blink of an eye she was gone however: leaving nothing but a wisp of thin smoke.

"What the hell was that?" John yelled as they retraced their steps up the steps. Sherlock plodded behind him for once, muttering something about ghosts.

And that was roughly when the earth began to shake.

Clinging for their lives on the handrails of the stairs, they tried to maintain their centres of gravity as the earth trembled mightily around them. From the ground level they heard screams as something horrific was unravelling above them.

"John, we haven't a moment to lose. We must discover what's happening on the surface!"

As they emerged from the Tower of London, they stared in wonder as Greg Lestrade shuffled towards them. He looked cautious: not trusting the ground he was on.

"Greg, tell me what's happened," Sherlock ordered, forgetting the body they had previously discovered. Bigger fish needed frying.

"Look for yourself. I think the answer should be fairly obvious!"

In unison, both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson examined the River Thames: which appeared to be the centre of whatever event was unfolding. Towards whatever the policemen were looking at lay.

And then they gasped.

Westminster Bridge had been graffitied with impossibly large black letters. A message that even the genius mind of Sherlock Holmes couldn't understand.

The tremor was felt far away by another brilliant mind as well, who was examining his console in response. Except that this man knew roughly what had caused the tremor. And he needed a closer look.

Loading up the news feeds by tracing the tremor back, he gasped as satellite pictures revealed the message on the Bridge in London. Then he swung into action, choosing to head there himself.

"Damn you River Song," he thought. "This better be important"


	2. The Shooting Star

**A/N: This chapter is for everyone who's read the previous chapter. And especially to AnimeGirl03, the first reviewer of this tale.**

**Two weeks later**

He found himself sitting on a bench on the bank of the River Thames, quietly contemplating the dark expanse which stretched out before him. Reflections of neon swirled in the depths, providing some essence of vivacity to his weary reflection.

Sherlock hated it when he couldn't sleep.

And yet since he had been lost for words when he discovered the symbols etched in black ink across the London Bridge he hadn't slept. He had forced himself to stay awake, trawling through the archive he had in the study of 221b Baker Street. Surely someone in history had recorded markings like this before!

And yet it wasn't in any language comprehendible to humans. He'd checked the language of the Mayans, the hieroglyphs of Ancient Egypt and the Tibetian tongues forgotten to the world. Nothing resembled the squiggles on the bridge.

Nobody had seen what had caused it. But that was how mysteries went. When London trembles, everyone looks to the earth. Nobody looks to the sky.

London had moved on in those two weeks. Nobody worried about the man who had been found in the Tower of London. The message was diligently scrubbed away in case it ruined the atmosphere of the Olympic Games. It was as if the world had forgotten everything.

Against the smog which thickened the night sky and smothered the fog, Sherlock watched as a shooting star burst through the barrier and across the sky. Judging by the colour and trajectory, he knew it was most likely an ordinary star travelling at the speed of light as it crossed the universe.

The shooting star, meanwhile, had other ideas.

**In the TARDIS**

"Best hang on to something Ponds, we're going in for a crash landing!" the Doctor yelled as he clung onto the TARDIS console.

"Why are we crashing? Can't you give us a soft landing for once? Maybe onto a nice patch of grass. Or a bouncy castle?" Rory complained, grabbing his wife's hand as they fell out of the sky.

"Sorry Rory. No grass here. Not in London anyway!" the Doctor barked, his free hand desperately attempting to control the Time Rotor. "There's a castle though. Just not bouncy!"

"So why are we falling again?" Amy screeched, shielding her eyes as a shower of sparks erupted from the failing console.

"A temporal vibration. Kind of an earthquake in the Time Vortex. I followed it back and found a message from River. Whatever caused it, it disabled the TARDIS systems meaning we couldn't escape,"

On the monitor, the Doctor watched as the River Thames blossomed into view. In the thick of night was always a good time to crash land, he thought to himself. He adopted the brace position, and then abandoned all hope as they plummeted.

"Hold your breath guys, we're going in!"

**The next morning, 221b Baker Street**

Morning was one of John Watson's least favourite times of the day. It meant leaving the warmth of his bed: of leaving Sarah and the security the covers offered him. It meant having to overcome the grogginess of the night before, when he had waited up for his best friend to return from his promenade.

"John, that was quite an impressive performance last night," Sarah mumbled into his ear, reaching a slender arm across his torso in an attempt to detain him from leaving her.

"You weren't too bad yourself Mrs. Watson," John whispered back shyly, swinging a foot reluctantly from the duvet to the floorboards. And then a voice truly woke him up.

"Good morning John. Fancy breakfast in bed?" Sherlock smiled, standing before the curtains in John's room. Sarah instantly went to draw the covers tighter against her chin, but Sherlock diverted his eyes.

"Um… are you offering to cook us breakfast?" Watson asked cautiously, frustrated that his best friend had waltzed into his bedroom. Is this what Sherlock did when nothing else happened? Popped up in the most awkward of places at the worst possible moment?

"Not at all. Mrs Hudson has some commitments. Bingo is most popular on Tuesday afternoons apparently, I didn't realise she had hobbies. Will you make me some? Two eggs, sunny side up. And hash browns too please. Oh, and tea!" Sherlock said happily, bouncing down to sit on the end of their bed.

"Why are you so excited? Shouldn't you be dying of insomnia or something?" Watson moaned, reaching for his dressing gown.

"Nonsense. I drank five pots of coffee. Not teapots: flowerpots. I feel fresh as a daisy. Besides, I want to tell you about something I saw last night!"

Twenty minutes later John found himself sat opposite Sherlock, eating a slice of toast and regarding mournfully the skull: who had materialised in Sarah's chair at the table in place of the woman herself.

"So. A shooting star falls into the River Thames last night at 1:23 a.m. Is there a connection with the events of the Tower of London?" John repeats, curious as to what his friend had just told him between slurps of a strong cup of tea.

"Yes. I'm telling you John. One moment it was in the skies, and the next it crashed. Barely noticeable, but there we go. It fell about five miles from where I was sat, so I couldn't discern any details. All I know is that it was up the river, where there was a strange amount of fog,"

"It's probably just a shooting star. No need to panic. Anyway, you need a break. That's why I'm taking you to the National History Museum. I figured it will do you some good," Watson announced. At that moment, the doorbell rang: signalling an end to their meal.

"I guess that's them now,"

The two detectives stalked their way across the National History Museum: John Watson happily browsing the antiquities they had on offer whilst Sherlock prowled for matching symbols to the ones from the Bridge.

"I hear they have a new exhibition in the Museum. Apparently an Oliver Stone discovered a statue down in Dover about two weeks ago. They claim it's of a person from the distant past: the first ever Oracle to mankind,"

They examined the gallery: which was surprisingly deserted for a Tuesday morning. The only company they had on this floor was a man with medium length brown hair and a tweed jacket. Watson had noticed this style creeping into London and shook his head: why people couldn't just wear something practical rather than outdated baffled the doctor.

The man in the tweed jacket walked past them, raising his head briefly to nod at the pair. To Watson's irritation, the man was wearing a red bow tie. How curious, he thought. Surely scarves are more comfortable!

They continued down the exhibition, then gained access to the storage areas by an elderly porter who Sherlock had helped five years ago. Cobwebs seemed to bloom like flowers across the exhibitions.

"Don't you feel like we're tiptoeing through a labyrinth?" Sherlock whispered, not wishing to disturb the hush that blanketed them.

"I suppose," John replied, urging his friend to continue. Overhead, the ceiling lights flickered and a low whirring sound could be heard: like a mechanical bird cooing at them from some distant shelf.

"The exhibition is right in the middle. Let's see what it is," Sherlock grinned, hurrying his steps towards the epicentre of the storage room.

It was a woman. Or rather a statue of a woman. Her hair, which curled like miniature serpents, fell down to her shoulders. She looked trapped: a terrible look of realisation frozen on her face. Whoever had etched this woman, they had etched her well.

"What do you think then?" Watson asked his friend, hardly surprised to notice that he was already taking notes of the statue.

"You mentioned it was the first Oracle to humankind. I can believe that. But her clothes don't look anything like what a pre-civilisation Oracle would wear. On the contrary, it barely looks like anything we've seen. The rendering on the watch she wears is incredible too: there are symbols in a language I can't read. And look, no imperfections. This isn't a statue John. This is too perfect to be a statue. Which leaves the question of who this woman is,"

"I think I can help you there," announced a voice behind them. "That woman is River Song,"


	3. The Dying of the Light

**A/N: Wow! This series is going a lot better than I thought it would! A huge thanks to everyone who has subscribed: with particular thanks going to Gwilwillith and The Imperator President. This chapter does feature another few retuning characters, and Sherlock has a case on his hands.**

"And who's River Song?" Sherlock whispered, anxious to face the person who had spoken. He doubted very much it was the elderly porter who had granted them access to this sanctuary of objects. Someone must have followed them in.

"Don't turn around. You can't turn around or I assure you that what happened to her will happen to you," the voice replied. Watson felt his body stiffen in response: there was something ethereal in the voice which invoked the agonies of Afghanistan before his eyes: the feeling that you were thousands of miles away from everyone you loved. The sheer emotion resonated in the stranger's voice, but Watson was forced to comply rather than help.

"Who's life? Who are you holding against their will?" Watson asked, raising his hands above his head to show he was following the man's orders.

"The life of the most important man in the world. It is important I remain unseen: but I can counsel you. The woman you observe there is River Song. You must find the one who calls himself the Doctor: he crashed in London last night with his friends. Find them and you can gain the answers you seek," the voice whispered.

In the corner of his eye, Watson noticed a vague shape blooming behind him. A man, that much was certain. Revolver cocked at the head of Sherlock. If he could just get a shot away, Watson was sure he could save them.

"I know you want to shoot me John, but I've come a long way to get here. You shouldn't just kill me now. I want to help you," the man replied painfully, taking a step backwards.

Which is roughly the man started writhing in agony, as though an invisible entity was torturing him.

On the spot, Watson and Holmes both turned in unison at the stranger who had spoken to them. In the space of a mere second, the man was lying in a pool of his own blood. What appeared to be claw marks had scratched his baby blue shirt and torn right through his pectorals. His short black hair was well cropped, although it did look as though it was greying. The man had a smile of a movie star: even in death.

"I guess you saw huh? I didn't think they'd know I was one of them, but then again I didn't figure I could live as long as I have," the man whispered, fighting the blood which gurgled in his mouth.

Instincts kicking into overdrive, Watson knelt to help the man by applying pressure to the wounds. CPR would be ineffective: Watson knew that much. Sherlock stared helplessly, a troubled look on his face. He had encountered the dying man before somewhere… if only he could remember when.

"Sherlock… Holmes… I never… thought… I'd see… you again," the man grinned, his electric blue eyes beginning to glaze over as death advanced like a leopard. "He was… O'Connell… a fine man… 51SDTA… dream and you'll find the answers…" the man's voice was shuddering.

"How the hell do you know my name? I know we've met before but I can't place you!" Sherlock yelled helplessly, urging John to try and save the man.

"It's… no use… I'm genuinely dying this time. You know… my name," the man wheezed. Trembling, he reached forward with his right hand: drawing attention to the leather contraption he wore. "The 21st… century… is when… everything changes… and you've gotta…" the man coughed, sending a flurry of blood towards Watson's face. He seemed to lose all strength: his shoulders hunched onto the floor and he was still. With his final breath, the man whispered "be ready" and was still.

The two detectives stared at each other, then at the man who lay dead on the floor. Following his instincts, Sherlock removed the leather device from the man's wrists and motioned for Watson to follow his lead out of the exhibition.

Neither of them spoke as they walked solemnly down the exhibitions and emerged into a gentle downpour of rain. Sherlock hailed for a taxi, then sat down on the curb: his fingers absently playing with the strap of the device.

"Where do you want to go now?" Watson breathed. The fact he was helpless in saving the man haunted him greatly.

"Home. There's nothing else we can do for River Song or that man. I know him from somewhere, but can't put a finger on it. I need to work out what this device is," he mumbled: more to himself than to his best friend.

"And what can I do? Make tea? Be on hand in case you need my help?"

"No John. I want you to find the man called the Doctor,"

**Ten hours ago**

The TARDIS, despite being able to surface in any dimension known, didn't like being underwater at all.

At the first hint of crashing into the Thames, the doors jarred open slightly and allowed the polluted water to gather inside the console room.

"Doctor, can't you do something! Get us out of here," Amy yelled, her military boots already covered in the river water. A fish swam around happily between her legs, as if attempting to colonise the console for itself.

"I can't Amy. The TARDIS is drowning. She can't lock onto the signal of the Time Vortex to pull us out of here. Even if we swim out there's nothing we can do,"

"Couldn't you have crash landed on a shallower bit of river that wasn't intent on drowning us?" Rory asked, fighting towards the doors to prevent more damage being done.

The Doctor whirled around angrily in response to this, his hair flicking back against his head as water continued to climb up his body.

"Sorry Rory, but I couldn't control where I was going. Perhaps you can pilot her next time we're flung from the skies by a temporal earthquake!" Rory stared dumbfounded at his friend, then at his shocked wife. "Okay, that was a bit harsh, but my TARDIS is drowning!"

"Make her un-drown then. Can't she jump?" Amy yelled, troubled by the water which was rising up her body. By now, the water had gathered up their torsos. The majority of the console itself was already underwater, which didn't help their situation.

"Course she can't jump. It's a TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space!" the Doctor pleaded. Hands shivering, he attempted to pull some levers. And then his very words caused him to curse his stupidity. He pressed a few buttons and pulled heavily on the nearest lever.

Like a spring, the TARDIS forced itself out of the water and hurtled onto the bank side. In the London fog, the double doors opened and a secondary river seemed to form as the water from the console room poured out.

Shivering, the three time travellers emerged into the crisp air of the London night and smiled.

"I switched to manual and flew us out of there," the Doctor said, sneezing into his tweed jacket.

"Why didn't you think of that in the first place you numpty?" Amy slapped his arm, but the smile on her face revealed her gratitude.

"I panicked. We all do. Judging by the air I'd say we're a fortnight late," he replied. Neither Amy nor Rory wanted to know how he knew that. They kissed each other passionately for a second, relieved to be alive. Only on the Doctor's mildly embarrassed cough did they separate.

"Time and a place Ponds. Right now we need to find River Song!" he grinned from ear to ear, and then his smile dropped as he observed the blaze of light which was falling from the night.

"What the hell is that thing?" Rory gulped. Before he met the Doctor, he would have naively assumed it was just a harmless space rock. Now he'd met the Doctor, he knew that harmless and space couldn't go together. It was like combining the words "friendly" and "serial killer".

"Trouble. Right then Ponds: we need to get off the streets! We're going undercover!"

**221b Baker Street**

The monotony in the flat was broken as Sherlock reached a text. The man himself was too intrigued to answer at first: the device handed by the dead man proved more interesting. Watson ended up abandoning the sofa for the mobile phone in Sherlock's coat pocket.

**We need you at Scotland Yard. Five killings in the past day. Never seen anything like it. Lestrade.**

The doctor placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, nodding solemnly.

"Sherlock, you won't get any answers by looking. Maybe if we find out what's bothering Lestrade we can get more clues,"

Sherlock cracked a smile: the first one he had cracked in days.

"You're right dear friend. The chase is on!"

**Two blocks away**

Valentina Rossi departed elegantly from her boyfriend's house carrying the device she had been instructed to steal.

Normally she wouldn't have betrayed her boyfriend like that. But her job working in MI6 came first. And love was a notion she could find anywhere: global security, on the other hand, wasn't.

Wishing to avoid the gaze of unwanted eyes, she chose to walk down the alley where she knew her car was waiting. Her footsteps echoed off the high walls and bounced off the sea of bin bags which had been carelessly abandoned by the owners. Cats prowled like lions in the maze around them, but she couldn't show any affection.

It was a shame that Greg had put up a fight. She always hated killing on a cold stomach.

Lost in her thoughts, she disregarded the shapes which were forming in the darkness. The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened as she moved however: even her brunette ringlets seemed to freeze.

As she turned, she saw it glide out of the darkness towards her. Nothing like she had ever seen: a creature encased in metal. As she screamed, the creature screamed a word she couldn't understand. Heaven bloomed from the creature's head like a pair of headlamps.

Then the world became no more.


End file.
